It was dark, and I was sawing a tree branch, trying to drop it before the man hanging from it died of strangulation. “Zzzt, zzzt,” went the saw. “Zzzt, zzzt.” Almost through the branch, but it might be too late. The hanged man wasn’t moving.
“Zzzt, zzzt.”
Tony sat up, and I startled awake. His phone lit up the room, blinding me.
That’s what I’d heard. Tony’s muted phone, buzzing against the table top. Sighing, I closed my eyes against the glare as tension drained from me.
“It’s Trujillo,” Tony said. “The M.E.’s report came in.”
He threw back the covers and stood. Cringing, I curled up in the blankets. “You’re going now?”
“Yeah. I’ll meet you at breakfast.”
From the refuge of the bed, I listened to him dress. He leaned over to kiss me, then was gone, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.
M.E. Military Educator. Meat and Eggs. Middle Earth.
Oh. Medical Examiner.
They must have taken the body away yesterday, before the snow started. Which meant the Medical Examiner had worked into the night, probably, to finish the autopsy.
With speculations about the condition of the deceased revolving in my brain, further sleep was unlikely. I arose, despite the darkness, and nudged the thermostat up a notch, then took a long, hot shower. I sighed at the sight of the pretty dress I’d brought for our dinner at the Inn, still hanging on the back of the door. I should just pack it away, I thought as I put on my last set of clean jeans and shirt. Then I pulled on my sweater and made tea.
It was still dark out. Ignoring the chill, I pushed aside the curtains in the Room of Many Chairs and sat watching the coming dawn. It was still snowing, although half-heartedly, as if the clouds were getting tired. I made myself as comfortable as possible in the modest chair, drank my tea, and thought back over the previous day’s events.
I’d found another body. Kris and Julio would be merciless, but with luck I’d keep the story from spreading all over Santa Fe. Maybe I’d neglect to tell Gina.
Actually, I had been pretty lucky, except for my annoying interview with Sheriff Romero. Deputy Trujillo had been meticulously polite and respectful, perhaps because of my connection with Tony. They were of a generation: colleagues, sympatico. And because of this, and because of my engagement, professional courtesy had been extended to me. An interesting sensation.
My mug was empty. I got up for more tea, and returned to my vigil, watching for the first lightening of the sky. What would this day bring? Tony’s last day off—and he was up to his neck in someone else’s investigation. And, apparently, enjoying it.
Quite possibly, I would never figure out what made Tony tick. Was he driven by grief? I didn’t think so. More like he wanted to carry on his father’s mission. He took the motto “serve and protect” to heart, more than most cops I’d encountered. Granted, I had been lucky enough not to encounter that many. But the news was full of complaints about police brutality, of bully culture and mistreatment of the vulnerable. I had never seen any indication that Tony was capable of that.
Finally the blackness shifted to dark gray, and shapes began to take form outside the window. The cottonwoods were looming shadows, bark painted in snow. Flakes were still falling. As I stood to replenish my tea, I could see the trench Tony had made in the fallen snow on his way down to the welcome center. It looked knee-deep.
“Holy Moly!”
I might not get home today.
I found my phone. Just past 7:00. I didn’t want to disturb Nat, but I’d have to tell her to be ready to stand in for me at the tearoom tomorrow. Likewise, I should give Kris a heads-up. And Julio, probably.
But it could wait until after breakfast. Which started at 7:30. Considering the snow, it would be a good idea to leave a little early.
I cleaned up my tea things, then put on my hiking boots and bundled up. Scarf, hat, gloves, and the winter coat. Making sure I had my phone in my purse, I headed out.
The sky was now a uniform pale gray. Tiny snowflakes continued to fall in a desultory way. The snow was just over my knees, maybe eighteen inches deep. Other than the marks of Tony’s passage, I saw no disturbance, and I had to blaze my own way when I turned toward the dining hall. The road had not been plowed. Fortunately, the snow was still powdery, so it wasn’t hard to push my way through it.
Not until I was close to the dining hall did I see the marks of other travelers. Several trails came across the field from the direction of the Staff House. Maybe the kitchen staff, as well as others?
Great deduction, Inspector Rosings.
Clearly I was in need of sustenance.
The cafeteria line was bright and cheery and steamy. Pancakes and oatmeal were offered in addition to cold cereal and fruit. I chose pancakes, but the only syrup offered was pancake syrup, and I preferred real maple. Disappointed, I picked up some butter, then in a stroke of inspiration, collected some packets of raspberry jam from the condiments table to adorn the pancakes. Very European.
I looked around for Lisette or Tony, and saw neither. Stopping briefly for coffee, I made my way toward the fireplace, where the morning’s fire was crackling as if it had just been coaxed to life.
Most of the guests who were present had collected near the fire. I took note of Flag Hat, sans the cap for once, and a couple of his buddies, with large stacks of pancakes and bacon on their plates. Several recognizable guests from either the trail ride or the O’Keeffe house tour were present, and I spotted Ted’s partner—I never had caught his name—at a table near the windows.
Choosing a seat at the first unpopulated table away from the fire allowed me to keep all of these people in view. I made myself comfortable, drank some coffee, then took out my phone and texted Tony:
I’m in the dining hall. Flag Hat is here.
No immediate answer, so I put the phone down and proceeded to enjoy my pancakes. On this chilly morning, they were a delight. I kept an eye out for Lisette as best I could, but my back was to the entrance. I hoped she’d notice me and join me when she arrived.
I finished my coffee and debated whether to get a second cup or some milk to accompany the rest of my pancakes. My phone buzzed with a text:
Be there in a few.
Milk, I decided. I fetched myself a glass, scanning the room for Lisette and Jeremy, then returned to my seat. A moment later, Ted strolled by, headed for the table where his partner was sitting. He paused beside me.
“All alone this morning?”
I shot him a “seriously?” look, and replied, “My fiancé is on his way.”
“Oh. Well, have a nice day, ma’am.”
He ambled away, leaving me annoyed. Maybe it was the disregard of professional distance, which I expected from someone I’d hired to perform a service. Maybe it was the suggestion of flirtation in his manner—also inappropriate for a professional. Or maybe I was still annoyed that I hadn’t been able to hear his narration on the tour. He rubbed me the wrong way, that was certain.
I finished my breakfast, drained my milk, and considered refilling my coffee after all, just as an excuse to remain. Flag Hat and his friends were being slightly loud, but no raucous arguments broke out. I searched the faces of the others I had recognized, looking for furtive or unusual behavior, but everyone was acting tediously normal. The woman whose horse had tried to bolt on the trail ride was fretting about her flight home the next day, worried she wouldn’t be able to drive her rental car to Albuquerque. That was as unusual as it got.
Still no Tony. He’d probably been unable to tear himself away from the MI’s report. I turned in my tray, refilled my coffee, and strolled toward the windows, looking out at the snow. The sky was a bit brighter, a hopeful sign that the storm was coming to an end.
“Seen Ezra?” said a voice off to the side. It was Ted, the trail guide. I sidled a bit in that direction.
“Nah. Bet he’s holed up in his cabin.” The other cowboy. “What’re we going to do today?”
“Clean tack.”
“What about the bay?”
“I’ll deal with him.”
What about the bay? I wondered. That big bay that had been saddled and waiting for the rider who would never come: Wesley Roan. I presumed that was what they were talking about, but they suddenly lowered their voices. Maybe they’d noticed me by the window.
Wesley had been dragged behind a horse, I recalled.
I finished my coffee and strolled away. Lisette and a sleepy-looking Jeremy emerged from the cafeteria line, and I went to greet them.
“Good morning!” I said, smiling.
Lisette smiled back, briefly. The shades were back. “Morning,” she said. “We slept in.”
“Good day for it. How do you like the snow, Jeremy?”
“It’s OK,” he mumbled.
“Let’s find a table,” Lisette said.
“Can we sit by the fire?” Jeremy said plaintively.
She nodded, and glanced at me. “You’ve eaten,” she said.
“Yes. I think I'll get a little more coffee.”
“Come and sit with us.”
She led Jeremy toward the fireplace. I fixed myself another improvised mocha and joined them, this time sitting with my back to the fire. Taking a sip, I watched Jeremy pick at his pancakes, then take a slice of bacon off of a stack on the side of his plate. Lisette poured milk onto a small bowl of oatmeal with granola sprinkled on top.
“I hope you slept all right,” I said.
Lisette shrugged, and looked at Jeremy. “We got some sleep.”
I watched them try to eat, not bothering them with any more conversation. They were in shock, still. They needed time and rest to recover.
Feeling I was watched, I looked up. Flag Hat Guy was staring at us, or maybe at the Roans. As I looked at him his gaze shifted to me, and for a second I saw sullen resentment in his eyes, then his expression changed to confusion. He looked down at his plate, picked up a piece of bacon, and stuffed it in his mouth in two bites.
Refusing to be rattled, I watched him a bit longer. He did not look up again. My attention was finally drawn away by the welcome sight of Tony, cafeteria tray in hand, scanning the room until he saw me and started forward.
“Morning,” he said as he sat beside me. “Hi, Jeremy.”
Jeremy gave him a shy glance. “Hi.”
Tony picked up his mug and took a swig of coffee, watching the Roans. Their lack of conversation didn’t bother him at all. He ate pancakes and drank coffee in comfortable silence, and I noticed Jeremy relaxing a bit in his presence.
Catching Tony’s eye, I lifted my chin toward where Flag Hat was sitting. Tony acknowledged this with a slight nod.
By the time Tony finished his pancakes, Lisette had finished her oatmeal. Jeremy had eaten all his bacon and was turning his remaining pancakes into mush with the back of his fork.
“Time to go,” said Lisette.
“Plans for the day?” I asked.
“I have to make ... arrangements,” she said.
I nodded. We all got up and disposed of our dishes, then put on our coats and went out into the snow.
The storm had stopped, the sky was brighter, and people were trudging through the snowdrifts here and there. An engine’s roar preceded the sound of a jacked up dualie pickup with a plow blade, scraping snow from the road. A couple of the pedestrians cheered as it went by, throwing up a fan of snow to one side.
We made our way back, following our own tracks from earlier, which had begun to pack down the snow into a reasonable trail. Tony and I parted from the Roans at the Ghost House, Lisette declining Tony’s offer to escort them to their casita. She dropped an arm around Jeremy’s shoulders as they started up the hill. We watched until they were out of sight, then went in.
“Deputy Trujillo was at work early,” I commented.
“He spent the night,” Tony said. “Crashed in a dorm room.”
“Ah.”
“Want to hear about the autopsy? It’s interesting.”
Did I want to hear about it? Not really, but I’d promised Tony my support. If I was destined to be his sounding board, I might as well get used to it.
“Sure,” I said.
Tony hopped onto the bed and stretched out, inviting me to join him. I took off my boots first, then snuggled beside him. So nice to just cuddle.
“Roan didn’t die from being hanged,” Tony said.
“What?”
“He was already dead when he was strung up.”
I sat up. “But....”
“He didn’t die from being dragged either. That happened after he died.”
I met Tony’s gaze. He was enjoying himself. “And he didn’t die from being shot, I assume?”
“Nope. One round of buckshot, fired at a distance. Would have stung like hell if he’d been alive, but he wasn’t.”
I frowned. “Then what killed him?”
Tony smiled. “The blow to the head. And what’s interesting is, the blow itself only gave him a nasty gash. But apparently it rocked his head back so hard, it broke his neck.”
I blinked. “So his neck was broken, but not by the rope?”
“Right.”
“Did he—die instantly?”
“Pretty quick, yeah.”
“Then why bother with the rest? The shotgun, the hanging?”
“Good question.”
I sighed, and snuggled back into Tony’s armpit. “Spite,” I said. “Or hate.”
“Two slightly different views of the same motive.”
Tony had on the sweater that Nat and Manny had given him for Christmas, I realized. How had I not noticed it before? Too preoccupied with the Roans and their troubles. I needed to regain my equanimity.
And yet, there was an unsolved murder. Tony wanted my feedback. And if I could help the Roans in any way, I must.
I stroked the sweater over his chest, following the narrow stripe with a fingertip. “What was he hit with?”
“Another good question. We don’t know. Something hard, with an edge, but not sharpened.”
“Like a board?”
“Probably heavier than that. It—um—did significant damage.”
“And the killer didn’t leave it at the scene.”
“Well, the crime scene we found was not the murder scene.”
“Oh. But the—criminal—took the trouble of covering their tracks.”
“Yeah.”
“So what crime happened there?” I asked, because I was getting puzzled.
“Tampering with evidence. And a hate crime, possibly.”
“Possibly. Depending on...?”
“There were no messages of hate. Usually a hate crime is defined either by overt hate messages, or by context.”
“And context in this case...”
“Is unclear.”
I thought over the past couple of days. “I think it’s fair to say Wesley Roan was hated.”
Tony stroked my hair. “Is it? Or was he just disliked because he was incredibly annoying?”
“If you had seen the way Flag Hat looked at us this morning ... he wasn’t just annoyed.”
“Was he looking at you, or the Roans?”
“I’m not sure. But when I looked back, he looked away.”
“Where was this?”
“In the dining hall. Before you got there.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed as he frowned. Had Flag Hat been present, he might have trembled in his designer boots.
“Anything else interesting?” I asked, to distract him.
“Yeah. The angle of the buckshot indicated the shooter was above Roan. Well above him, like at least ten feet.”
“So...?”
“So maybe they were above the arroyo.”
“Or in the tree,” I said. “But not on the ground.”
Tony gave a huff of laughter. “Yeah. Why climb up in a tree to shoot, when you could shoot from the ground? But the angles are all wrong.”
“Why is the big question,” I said. “Why did Wesley run out to that arroyo? Why did the killer shoot him after he was dead, and drag him to a tree and string him up?”
“Well, stringing him up is pretty obvious.”
“Is it? You just said that context matters. What if hate had nothing to do with this?”
Tony leaned his head back to look at me. “What’s your motive, then?”
“Maybe someone was after his money. You’ll need to check out his will—”
“That’s underway,” Tony said.
I paused, mixed feelings hitting me on the subject of Wesley’s will. On the one hand, I hoped every penny he had went to Lisette. On the other, that would add to her motivation for killing her husband. Or having him killed.
Neither of which I truly believed was possible.
“Or maybe,” I said slowly, groping after a new thought, “a competitor of his wanted him out of the way.”
Tony raised an eyebrow. “Battle of the Houston sports bars?”
“Territorialism. Ancient and honorable reason for killing your neighbor.”
“Well, I don’t know about honorable.”
“Or maybe Wesley was trying to blackmail someone,” I said.
“Why would he do that?”
“It’s the sort of thing assholes do.”
“Not all assholes.”
I had to chuckle at that. Tony rolled on his side and pulled me closer.
“We’re getting into extreme speculation here,” he said.
“I thought speculation was the name of the game.”
“Mm. We could play another game.”
He ran a hand along my shoulder blades, setting them tingling. My brain sent some happy affirmative signals shooting through me.
“What game do you have in mind?” I asked, and nipped his chin.
His answer was non-verbal.
Some time later, after we’d showered and dressed, we headed for the welcome center to confer with Deputy Trujillo, who had been sending Tony texts for half an hour. I sent a thought of gratitude toward my mother, who had taught me always to pack extra socks and underwear.
Outside, the sun was gleaming through the overcast, a pale ball in a gray sky. The air was a little warmer It was still bitter cold, so there hadn’t been much melt-off yet. Our footsteps scrunched as we made our way to the road, where the snow was packed by the passing of the plow truck and other vehicles.
We could get out, hurrah! Home tonight!
That is, if I could get the Camry onto the road. And if Tony could tear himself away from the case. I glanced at him sidelong. His mood was cheerful, which I found interesting, as that wasn’t how he usually reacted to a murder case.
But then, it wasn’t his case. He was on vacation, technically. He had just chosen to help out Deputy Trujillo. Maybe he was having fun with the problem-solving, without feeling the usual pressure of responsibility.
“You up for a hike?” Tony asked, his breath fogging.
“Now? In the snow?”
“Yeah—mostly walking. Not on ridges like the Matrimonial Trail. But it might be kind of long.”
“Oh, well. In that case, why not?”
I was being flippant, but I got the impression Tony wasn’t joking. Why he suddenly wanted to hike, I had no idea—but I was curious. It must have something to do with the case.
We reached the welcome center just as Deputy Trujillo was emerging. He wore a sheepskin coat over his khaki uniform, and the Stetson hat he’d had on the night before.
“There you are,” he said to Tony. “Almost gave up.”
“Sorry for the delay,” Tony said.
“It’s OK. My uncle just got here. You need to go in?” He gestured toward the center.
Tony shook his head. I dug my gloved hands into my pockets, wondering if I’d regret agreeing to hike, because I now suspected what our destination would be.
The center’s door opened and a tall man in a sheepskin coat over jeans stepped out. He wore no hat; his long, black hair was braided and tied with a single feather; and he was Bernardo Milagro.
I’m sure my eyes were like saucers. In the daylight, I could see threads of silver running through his hair, and deep creases at the corners of his eyes. He had a well-worn leather satchel slung over his shoulder, and carried a flute in one hand. He squinted at the bright spot in the sky that was the sun, then looked at me and Tony and grinned.
“It’s the bride and groom. Morning!”
“Morning,” I said, not quite sure I wasn’t dreaming.
Milagro looked at Trujillo. “Let’s do this.”
Trujillo nodded, head down, and suddenly I recognized the movement. I had seen him before. On the stage, backing up Milagro on the electric piano. My impression of his personality underwent a rapid and radical transformation.
Trujillo led the way along the trail that led to the stables. A faint hope that we were going to ride was smacked down by my sensible side. Riding in snow would be dangerous for horses and riders alike, even if the ranch management had no objections, which they surely would. Liability, etc., etc. Not to mention fatiguing the animals.
We walked past the corrals, where said animals were out of sight, probably in their stalls munching hay. Trujillo led us to the horse trail and along it. There were no prints of any kind on it, but the indentation in the snow marked the path that the horses’ hooves had worn across the mesas. The snow wasn’t as deep there as it was where there was foliage. We walked single file, Trujillo in the lead, followed by Milagro, then me, with Tony again bringing up the rear. No one talked.
Knowing this would be a long walk, I tried to occupy myself by thinking about things I needed to do for the tearoom. We had February reservations coming in already. Kris wanted to extend our hours, as we’d done in December, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to do that again so soon. It would mean more hours for my staff, or hiring additional help. There was also the special Valentine’s Day event I had tentatively planned. That would need to be firmed up and I’d have to reach an agreement with the musicians...
Somewhere in the midst of considering these and other details, I found myself going over the murder case again. The tearoom slid from my thoughts, replaced by the image—burned into my memory—of Wesley Roan’s body swinging gently from a cottonwood.
Why had the killer been so unnecessarily thorough? Why bludgeon a man to death, then follow it up with shooting him, dragging him, and hanging him? That spoke of intense animosity.
A large bird flew by overhead and I paused to watch it. It was black: crow or raven, I wasn’t sure. Because we were in O’Keeffe’s country, I immediately thought of Black Bird, another of my mom’s posters. Tony came up beside me and gave my shoulder a squeeze.
“You OK?” he said softly.
I nodded and turned to catch up to the others.
Walking behind Milagro, I had leisure to admire his braid—which was very thick—and the feather, which was tied in with strips of leather and beadwork that glinted even in the filtered sunlight. They reminded me of the dragonfly necklace he had given me and Tony. His satchel was plain, heavy leather that had been well-cared-for over years of use. It made me think of the pouch I had found: Captain Dusenberry’s treasure.
Milagro’s flute was a thing of beauty: dark wood, carved and polished, ornamented with beads and a bear fetish made of bright turquoise that was lashed to the flute with deerskin. He’d made it himself, I was sure. I remembered hearing he made all his own flutes, and there had been one for sale on his table. This might be one of the ones he had played at the concert.
I was hiking in the snow with Bernardo Milagro. The day was getting surreal.
I was no longer cold at all, I realized. I was a little concerned about being out here without water, but there was plenty of snow if we got thirsty, and the sky was gradually brightening, so cold wasn’t going to be an immediate danger. I looked at the cliffs, trying to gauge how far we’d come. We had not yet passed O’Keeffe’s ranch house.
Even as I thought this, I saw the roughly horizontal lines of the rail fence ahead, covered with snow. The fence slanted haphazardly; the windows were dark, empty eyes. It truly looked abandoned now. We passed by and headed on toward the cliffs. As we climbed a shallow slope, I could see the impression in the snow of the service road that ran past the ranch house, where the landscape tour bus would normally run. All of today’s tours had been canceled—because of the snow, not to mention the murder—but would the plow be coming along this road? Would it destroy unseen evidence?
For that matter, if there were tracks beneath the snow, would there be anything left of them when it melted? I didn’t know.
We made our way down a steep cut into an arroyo, then switchbacked up the other side. There’d been several such crossings on the trail ride, I remembered. We were getting farther from the ranch complex, closer to the cliffs. They seemed to loom over us now, towers touching the pearly sky.
My feet were beginning to ache, and my legs were getting tired from walking in heavy boots (though I was grateful for them, because they kept my feet warm). To distract myself, I looked at the cliffs and thought about O’Keeffe’s many paintings of this land. These were the red hills she so loved. I wondered if they had inspired White Shell with Red. The background in that painting was the same bright, vermilion-red of these sandstone hills.
I hoped Lisette would return to her art. I hoped seeing O’Keeffe’s places had inspired her, and that her art would help her through her grief. Maybe the trip would inspire Jeremy, too. Certainly it was good for him to see places like this.
For Wesley, it had been too late. He was too ingrained in his football culture and in his own life habits to be touched by natural beauty. And he’d had plenty of company. I wondered why Flag Hat and the other football fans were here at all. Had all of them been dragged unwilling to Ghost Ranch by family members who were seeking inspiration?
That couldn’t be the case. They must be here for better reasons than that. What would bring a man like Flag Hat Guy here? A workshop or retreat? Maybe he was actually a paleontologist who just happened to love football?
Tony might know, if Trujillo had shared his interviews. Not that I was curious to know myself.
I looked up from watching where I placed my feet in the partially-trodden snow, to where Trujillo was blazing the trail for us. He’d called Milagro his uncle. So he was Pueblo, or part Pueblo. And he’d been at the concert. A musician, as well as a cop. I remembered Tony’s guitar, and how surprised and delighted I’d been when he played it and sang for me.
Below the cliffs, a tall, barren bush rose at the edge of the mesa. As I looked at it more closely, I realized it was a tree: the top of a cottonwood growing in an arroyo. I glanced at Trujillo, still breaking through the snow in the trail, its indentation winding away before him, snake-like, across the snowy mesa. This was looking familiar. I looked at the cliffs, and westward at the more distant horizon, also defined by cliffs, with blue mountains marching away to the southwest. The tempo of my pulse increased a notch.
Glancing southward, I looked for the ranch road. There it was, a wide and shallow dip in the snow, curving northward. Beyond it, the sagebrush was beginning to emerge from its blanket of snow. The hollow darkness between branches showed black, like little caves, and I wondered if little animals were hiding in some of them, waiting for the sun’s return.
The day was getting warmer. Our breath no longer froze in the air. Ahead, Trujillo halted, then Milagro stopped beside him. I stayed back, waiting. Tony stepped up even with me.
We stood at the edge of a descent into the arroyo. The deep-worn trail rang more bells of familiarity. Looking northward, I saw a bit more of the tree that was not a bush.
Wesley’s tree.
My stomach was suddenly heavy, trying to drop out of me. I swallowed, realizing my throat was dry. A sip of water would have been good. I wasn’t yet desperate enough to eat snow.
The two men in front of me exchanged a murmured word, then Trujillo started northward along the top edge of the arroyo, going more slowly as he left the trail. Again, we followed single file in his tracks. He avoided the small bumps in the snowy ground that were clumps of wild grass or baby trees, and skirted the larger bushes, junipers, and the occasional cholla. I wondered nervously if there was prickly pear beneath the snow, then reminded myself that even if I had the bad luck to step on a hidden cactus, my boots should protect me.
The cottonwood tree loomed as we got closer, bare branches reaching skyward. It was bigger than I’d thought, its crown rising a good fifteen feet or more above the edge of the mesa. When we’d come as close to it as we could without descending into the arroyo, we stopped again.
Milagro stepped forward, joining Trujillo at the edge. Glancing back, he motioned to me and Tony to join them. I moved to Milagro’s right, and Tony stepped to my right.
We all stood staring silently at the tree. I gazed down through the upper branches, unwillingly trying to discern which bough was the one on which Wesley had been hanged. A low one that grew out over the arroyo, I remembered.
Milagro reached into his satchel and withdrew a gourd rattle. Suddenly he began to sing, the first syllable a bark that made me jump, sharp in the cold desert air. It was Tiwa, so I had no hope of understanding the words, but the meaning was crystal clear. He sang with the anguish of one who has lost a brother. After a few lines, he began to shake the rattle, slowly, in the rhythm of a heartbeat.
That rhythm evoked every feast-day dance I’d ever been to. My feet wanted to move with it: right LEFT, right LEFT, right LEFT. Shadows of the deer dancers, the buffalo dancers, the butterfly dancers and corn dancers stepped through my memories.
Was this a sing?
Still playing the rhythm as he sang, Milagro held the rattle out toward Trujillo, who took it without missing a beat. A few more phrases, then Milagro raised the flute while the rattle’s heartbeat continued.
If the singing had sounded mournful, the flute was doubly so. I realized I was holding my shoulders tensely, and deliberately relaxed them. As I let go, the flute’s sorrow flowed through me. Tears filled my eyes and overflowed. Tears for a wrongful death, for a joyless life, for the pain of a wounded family, now broken.
The music went on and on. At times Trujillo shook the rattle in a continuous buzz, and memory played a drumroll along with it while he joined Milagro in singing: a calling, a summoning. Then the rhythm would begin again, and another song—another dance—would follow.
Finally I had no more tears. I swallowed, trying to be silent, trying not to sniff. Once I raised my hand to wipe my face. In the cold, the tears chilled my cheeks even more.
Milagro sang again, played the flute again. Cold crept up my legs now that we were standing still. To keep my feet from falling asleep, I eased my weight gently back and forth with the rhythm of the rattle: right left, right left, right left.
Another roll of the rattle, another chanting call, and then three strong beats, followed by silence. I held still, listening to the echo of the rhythm and the song. A breeze stirred the tree branches, rattling them together. Their motion drew my eye, and through them I saw a splash of blue and white.
Tony’s hand slid into mine. I turned my head to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark and intense. The music had called something out of him, just as it had with me. There was fierce feeling in his gaze, but it wasn’t anger. It was love—fierce love—as though his soul was saying “no matter what the world throws our way, I will be here for you.”
I drew a deep and slightly shaky breath, and let it out in a sigh. Trujillo held out the silent rattle to his uncle, who stowed it in the satchel.
That blue and white troubled me. They were not colors that fit into the landscape, even with the snow. Wanting to know what it was, I took a couple of steps to the right, trying to find a gap in the branches to see through. Tony came with me, steadying me as I groped for level footing. Some of the branches did not look right, until they suddenly resolved into fence posts. Even more haphazard than the O’Keeffe homestead fence, these posts were barely kept upright by long-neglected barbed wire. In a couple of places they were down, the wire hidden by the snow. The blue was a sign, roughly lettered in white: KEEP OUT, then a little smaller, DANGER UNSTABLE, followed by rows of text decreasing in size. I remembered another such sign, seen on the trail ride, not so very far from where we stood.
How sad that someone was so frightened as to think such signs were needful. How sad that sometimes, they were. I looked at it again, and noticed now that the sign and the fence didn’t just flank the arroyo: they crossed it.
What I had thought to be a bend in the arroyo, curving around the cottonwood tree, was in fact the end of the arroyo—or rather, its beginning. A short distance beyond the crazy fence, a jumble of yellow boulders tumbled into the bottom, blocking the way. A wash, coming down out of the hills, that only became a seasonal stream bed when it reached the softer sandstone mesa. Snow-capped, the rocks looked smaller than they really were.
Now I understood the sign, and I understood something more. In the dark, the pale arroyo would have appeared to lead straight into that fence. Could Wesley have stumbled into it, or even across it?
But there was the sign. He must have seen that, even if he didn’t have a flashlight. The moon hadn’t been full, but it had been bright. Could he have been so stubborn and defiant as to ignore such a clear warning?
“We can go back, ma’am, if you’re ready,” said Deputy Trujillo gently. He was standing beside Tony. I hadn’t noticed his approach.
I looked at him, wanting to explain what I’d just understood, but unable to pinpoint its significance. It just felt important, maybe because it hadn’t occurred to me before.
“I was just looking at that sign,” I said.
Trujillo nodded. “Yeah, that’s old Ezra’s. His land’s the other side of that fence.”
“Is he the ... the miner?”
Trujillo gave a soft laugh. “He’d like to be, if he could find something to mine. So far he’s just been tearing up his land.”
I looked back at the rockfall. Had it been caused by a human? If so, he was either very strong, or very persistent.
“There’s no gold in these hills,” said Milagro, still standing where he had sung. He looked up at the sky, then turned and started walking back toward the ranch.
We all followed.
By the time we got back it was past noon. Lunch would be underway in the dining hall. I was hungry, thirsty, and footsore, but immeasurably glad that I’d witnessed Milagro’s singing. I thanked him, stumbling over my words of gratitude. He just nodded.
“You needed it too,” he said.
His dark eyes held my gaze for a long moment. “Spirit friend,” he said, so quietly I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. Then with a small smile he turned to talk to Trujillo.
I looked at Tony. Had he heard?
“Hungry?” he said.
I sighed. “Starving.”
“Let’s get lunch.”
The dining hall was subdued. Of the football crowd, only Flag Hat Guy was present—sans hat, for once—at the far end of a table by the windows. There probably wasn’t a game on; it was Monday, a holiday, at midday. Maybe the others were sleeping off the previous night’s excitement.
Or maybe most of the weekend guests had left. This was a vacation spot after all. I’d almost forgotten that Tony and I were here on vacation. Ostensibly.
Lunch was burritos, with cornbread on the side and green chile stew at the soup station. I skipped the salad bar, promising myself I’d be more virtuous at dinner time. The Roans were not in the hall. Tony and I chose seats at the middle of a table near the fireplace. Though the fire had been allowed to die down, there was still some residual warmth, and the smell of pine logs burning.
“Has Mrs. Roan texted you?” Tony asked.
I checked my phone. “No. Why?”
“I need to talk to her.”
What now? I thought it, but didn’t say it.
Watching the comings and goings in the dining hall, I noted that some of the guests were heavily bundled in winter gear—they looked more like hunters than tourists—and wondered if they were camping. There was a campground on the ranch, though January didn’t seem to me to be an ideal time.
I finished my cornbread, and considered getting another piece as I ate the last of my stew. Every time someone came out of the cafeteria line I looked up, hoping to see Lisette and Jeremy. No sign of them yet, but I did see Deputy Trujillo emerge from the line with a plate. He added a bowl of stew and a cup of coffee, then spied us and came over.
“Can I sit with you?” he asked.
“Sure,” Tony said. I smiled and nodded.
Trujillo flashed me a grin as he sat across from me. Trusting for a cop; it placed him with his back to the room. Tony and I were side by side, facing the main entrance. Maybe Trujillo was counting on Tony to cover him.
“Got tired of those turkey sandwiches,” he said, picking up his cornbread.
“Have you seen the Roans this morning?” Tony asked in a low voice. No other guests were near us.
Trujillo shook his head, chewed his mouthful, and swallowed. “I talked to her on the phone,” he said quietly. “She doesn’t know anything about a will.”
Tony leaned back in his chair. “What about the lawyer?”
I gave him a questioning look.
“Lawyer was Roan’s business manager,” Trujillo explained to me, then he looked at Tony. “Talked to him, too. Far as he knows there’s no will. He’d been trying to pin Roan down and get him to make one.”
No will. Poor Lisette! Another mess to deal with.
“What will happen?” I asked.
“Texas law says the kid gets half, wife gets half,” Tony said.
Well, it could be worse. I watched Tony and Trujillo, trying to get a read on them. Were they still suspicious of Lisette?
“Have you interviewed Flag Hat Guy?” I asked, glancing in his direction.
Trujillo gave me a confused look.
“Cartwright,” Tony said. “Yes, they did. He’s got an alibi—the football game. He and his buddies were in the cantina all evening. Jeremy confirmed that, so they can be grateful to him.”
Damn. Who did that leave?
The cowboy trail guides. I didn’t much care for them, especially Ted, but it really was unlikely that he’d have chosen to hang his victim where the tour guests might spot him. There was his partner’s absence, but maybe there was an explanation there.
“Did you talk to any of the staff?” I asked. “The stable staff?”
“Yep,” Trujillo said. “Talked to all of them. They were all in the Staff House Saturday night, playing poker.”
Damn.
What if they had made a posse, and agreed to the poker story as a group alibi? No—that was too far-fetched. And as far as I knew there were hoofprints from only one horse at the scene of the hanging.
Regretfully, I abandoned the stable staff as suspects. Who was left? I thought back over the last couple of days, all the people I’d met or observed, trying to recall any anomalies. Lots of people had seemed annoyed by Wesley, but which ones had exhibited extreme behavior?
“Ezra,” I said, thinking aloud.
Trujillo gave me an interested look. “Why? He never met Roan.”
I shrugged. “He’s so angry about protecting his land.”
“That’s just how he is,” Trujillo said. “Been like that forever, but he’s never done any harm. He’s all bark, no bite. Worst I ever heard of was he fired his shotgun in the air at one of the ranch hands, and a couple of spent balls rained down on them.”
“When was that?” Tony asked.
“Four, five years ago. He got hauled into court, ranted a little, paid his fine and that was that.”
“No remorse?”
“I wasn’t here at the time, but I think he convinced the judge he was sorry.”
I frowned, thinking about Ezra. I’d seen him in Bode’s Sunday afternoon, buying canned goods. Stocking up for the storm.
“How far away is his cabin?” I asked. “I heard the trail guides saying they hadn’t seen him.”
“That’s not unusual,” Trujillo said. “He’s really a recluse. Comes out for a meal now and then, but mostly keeps to himself. I guess we could do a welfare check.”
“You interviewed him about the crime?”
“Romero sent someone over and asked him to come in. Ezra cussed him for his trouble.”
“But did he come?” Tony asked.
Trujillo looked as if he was just realizing he might have missed something important. “I’ll have to check Romero’s notes. I was out talking to ranch staff most of the day Saturday, after we spoke to you,” Trujillo said, nodding to me.
“There’s Lisette!” I said, as I saw her coming out of the cafeteria line with Jeremy. They headed for the soup station.
“I’ll go check whether Ezra came in,” Trujillo said, standing and picking up his plate. He stuffed the last of his cornbread in his mouth as he strode away.
I looked at Tony. Cop face; impassive.
OK. Trujillo must be leaving it to us to talk to Lisette. He and Tony must have agreed to that. Was Tony counting on my friendship with Lisette to get her to be more open?
Well, if he was, I intended to help her show him her innocence.
Having served herself a bowl of stew, Lisette turned and scanned the room. I gave a small wave when her gaze crossed mine, and she smiled, then headed our way with Jeremy following.
“I’ll get us some coffee,” Tony said, standing. “Cream and sugar?”
“Just cream,” I said.
The Roans made their way over to our table. “Hi,” I said as they arrived.
Lisette took the chair Trujillo had vacated. Her shiner was already less noticeable. Besides the chile stew she had a plate of salad and a piece of cornbread.
Tony returned with the coffee, nodded to Lisette, then sat down and kept his eyes on his plate, methodically cutting small bites of his burrito. Trying to be invisible, I thought.
Jeremy’s plate held two burritos, which he had smothered in red and green chile sauce from the condiments table. Having tried some of both with my own burrito, I knew that they were pretty spicy. His drink, I noted, was a large glass of soda.
“Wow, that’s a lot of chile,” I said. “Did you taste it?”
“It’s Christmas!” Jeremy said, picking up his knife and fork.
Lisette looked at me. “He saw one of the ranch hands doing it that way,” she said. “That’s what they called it: Christmas.”
“Red and green,” Tony said, without looking up.
“Do you like spicy food?” I asked, but Jeremy had already taken a large bite. As I watched, his eyes widened, and he hastily gave his mouthful a couple of chews, then swallowed and reached for his soda.
“You might not want to—” I began.
“Aaaaahh!” Jeremy said after one pull at the soda.
I jumped up and dashed to the coffee and tea station, grabbed a pint of milk from the refrigerator, and hurried back. “Drink this,” I said, handing the milk to Jeremy, who was fanning his open mouth with his hands.
He took a big swig, and after a few seconds calmed down. Gasping (a trifle dramatically), he continued to drink the milk until it was gone. Lisette quietly set his plate aside, and when he’d finished his milk, offered him her cornbread. He accepted this, and nibbled at it.
“Thank you,” Lisette said to me.
I smiled ruefully. “Sorry I wasn’t quicker.”
“It’s OK.” She looked at her son. “Now he knows to taste things before taking a lot of them.”
Tony coughed, and took a deep pull at his coffee. I glanced at him, suspicious, but if he was concealing amusement he did it very well. He caught me looking, finished the last of his burrito in one larger-than-usual bite, and stood.
“Be right back,” he said, picking up his empty plate and heading toward the kitchen. He grabbed Jeremy’s burritos on his way.
I looked at Lisette. “I hope your morning wasn’t too awful.”
She shrugged. “It’s going to be awful for a while,” she said softly.
Jeremy looked up at her with sad eyes. She put an arm around him for a shoulder hug.
“Feeling better?” she asked him.
He nodded, and took another small bite of cornbread. Lisette smiled at him, a sad smile, but not a broken one. This horrible weekend, I realized, was the beginning of a better life for them. I didn’t want to think about what life with Wesley had been like. I’d seen more than enough to know it had been unhappy and probably frightening. Life without him might be challenging, but it would be better.
“Did you do something fun this morning?” Lisette asked me.
“Ah—” I said, wondering how to describe the excursion with Trujillo and Bernardo Milagro. Deciding it was better not to, I simply said, “We went for a walk in the snow.”
Lisette nodded, and flashed a small smile. “It’s beautiful. I’d love to paint it.”
“You could sketch it,” I suggested gently.
She met my gaze, and for a moment her chin trembled, then she took a breath. “Yes,” she said. “I think I will.”
Tony returned, carrying a plate with two pieces of cornbread, and a wrapped ice cream bar. He set the plate beside Lisette, and handed the ice cream to Jeremy, who commenced tearing it open at once.
“Where’d you find that?” I asked. “I didn’t see them.”
“I asked one of the cooks if they had any ice cream.”
“That was kind of you,” Lisette said. “Thank you.”
Tony smiled. “De nada.”
“What do you say?” Lisette said to Jeremy.
He paused in destroying the wrapper to look up at Tony. “Thank you,” he said meekly.
“You’re welcome,” Tony told him. He picked up his mug. “Anyone want coffee?”
Lisette’s head rose, then she glanced at me.
“I’m fine,” I said, lifting my mostly-full mug. My coffee was lukewarm, but that was all right.
Lisette looked at Tony. “Yes, please.”
“How do you like it?” Tony asked.
“Black.”
As will sometimes happen, the word rang out into a moment of silence in the hall. Lisette looked flustered and frozen simultaneously, like a deer in the headlights. Tony nodded and went away to the coffee stand.
“Do you have a favorite painting of O’Keeffe’s?” I asked Lisette, to fill the silence.
She gave me a grateful look, and nodded. “I’ve always liked New York with Moon, because it reminds me of New Orleans, but I think my favorite is From the Plains I. What about you?”
“A favorite? I’m not sure ... so many of them are wonderful. I adore the datura paintings. I think she called them jimson weed.”
“Like the one she did for Elizabeth Arden?”
“Yes. But I think ... actually, my favorite may be Black Place III.” I lowered my voice a little, to avoid another awkward moment.
Lisette gave me a long, steady look, then nodded. “Yes. I like that one, too. It resonates with so many different things. Did you notice that the gray and red hills around here are like the ones at the bottom of that painting?”
“No!” I tried to remember the painting, but that detail had not leapt out at me. “I know the hills you mean, though. There’s more of that formation just to the east. Now I want to look at the painting!”
“I’ve got a picture of it in a book in my room, if you want to come see,” Lisette said.
“Thanks, I’d like that.”
Tony returned with a mug of coffee for Lisette, and sat beside me with his own mug. Lisette gave him a brief smile.
“Thank you.”
Tony nodded, then raised his head, looking past her. I followed his gaze and saw Flag Hat Guy approaching.
Now I felt like a deer in the headlights. What could he want?
My heart started racing with fear for Lisette’s safety. I tried to tell myself it was irrational, but there was a chance it wasn’t. What could I do to protect her, if need be? Throw my coffee in his face?
But Tony was here. Tony would take care of us. I sensed his readiness.
“Ma’am?”
Flag Hat had come around to stand by the empty chair next to Lisette. She looked up at him, rather haughtily.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry about your husband.”
Lisette’s face was a formal mask. She blinked once, and a swallow moved her throat.
Flag Hat shoved a hand in his pocket. Next to me, Tony stiffened. The hand came out holding a wallet, and I was able to breathe again.
Flag Hat pulled a wad of cash out of the wallet and put it on the table next to Lisette’s plate. “I won this off your husband in a bet,” he said. “I want you to have it.”
It was twenties. There had to be at least five hundred dollars in that stack, I thought.
Lisette’s gaze was fixed on the money. “Keep it,” she said finally. “You won it fair and square.”
“I did,” Flag Hat said, “but I don’t feel right keeping it, after what happened.”
“Then donate it to the ranch,” Lisette said.
Silence. No one moved for a long moment, then, “All right, I will,” said Flag Hat Guy quietly. He picked up the money but did not return it to his wallet. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” he said, and his other hand went to his brow, where the brim of his hat would have been. He glanced at me and Tony, then quietly walked away, toward the west doors to the hall, where there was a donation box.
Lisette closed her eyes, her brow drawn into a furrow of grief. Jeremy watched her with anxious eyes. Tony and I remained silent. I glanced up in time to see Flag Hat stuff the money into the donation box before leaving the building.
“You OK?” Tony asked softly. He was talking to Lisette.
She opened her eyes to look at him, swallowed again, then nodded.
“Shall we give you some space?” I asked.
“No, please stay.”
Jeremy leaned over to whisper to his mother. She nodded, and he got up. I watched him head for the restroom.
Lisette took a sip of coffee, then looked at Tony. “I’d like to leave today,” she said, a note of challenge in her voice.
“We’re still trying to locate a will. Can you think of anyplace Mr. Roan might have stashed one?”
“Wesley didn’t write a will,” she said.
“How can you be sure?” Tony asked. “He might not have told you about it.”
She fixed him with a hard stare, then picked up her mug with a sigh. “Wesley couldn’t read.”